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Lays of Later Days. 



Collected and Edited 

T.pi De Leon 




Blelock & Co., No. 19 Beekman Street. 
1866. 



TS 55 I 
.33 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1S66, by 

T. C. De LEON, 

In tlie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of 
Maryland 




y^ 



mmm JDI ii<:ftmaw4 



WHOSE NOBLE SACRIFICES AND UNTIRING EXERTIONS 

FOE THE SICE DUEING THE WHOLE WAE, 

HAVE AVRtTTEN THEM IN LETTERS OF LOVE, 



^ 



PEEFAOE. 



A BOOK without a preface is like a salad without salt ; but in 
offering the poems in this volume to the public, I can add little 
to what they speak for themselves. 

The sole object of the collection is to make known a few 
noble poems that belong rather to the world than to any par- 
ticular section, and to show those who have read Rebel 

Rhymes that 

" There's life in the old land yet " 

to do higher and better things. 

Knowing that the South was surrounded during the war by 
a Chinese wall, that hid many important points of her history 
even from those beyond it, I was still surprised at the utter 
ignorance in the North of her having produced any thing like 
a high order of poetry. This ignorance extended, too, even to 
those whose principles or sympathies made them peer, with 
straining eyes, through every possible crevice in the barrier. 

It is with diffidence, proportioned to the difficulties that sur- 
round it, that I have approached the task. The garland is to 
be gathered from a field extensive and teeming with a rank 
luxuriance of growth, that it must often puzzle the analyst to 
separate from the really valuable. 

Little as is known of it, and confined, as it has ever been, 
to particular cliques, there is yet much latent literature in the 
South. The terrible friction, however, so long and so roughly 
applied, brought only the metrical element to the surface. 



vi ^f'l^ieface. 

In prose of all kinds the South stood still, perhaps retro- 
graded ; but she 

" Lisped in numters^ for the nwnbers came /" 

The thousand tragical incidents and picturesque situations 
of a war like this offered rare motives to the true poet, aj:id 
tempting opportunities to the rhymster of low degree. 

Magazines, albums, and newspaper corners overflowed with 
the efiusions of these latter, on all subjects, and of all lengths. 

But occasionally in a great crisis of the war, or when a 
heavy calamity bore upon the whole people, some mightier one ' 
lifted his voice and spoke words that live. These I have en- 
deavored to preserve in more durable form than the pressure 
of the times when they were uttered could allow. Some of 
them were comparatively unknown, even in the South ; partly, 
that grave and absorbing duties of the hour weighed upon the 
public mind ; but more, I imagine, from want of some general 
medium of circulation. 

>^ Many again found their way to the camps, were at once 
adopted. by the soldiers, and became 

" Familiar in their mouths as household words^ 

But, as with the popular poems of most revolutions, these 
were the "taking" songs of a lower order — ephemera that 
have lived out the day for which they were born. 

In this effort to show the quality^ and not the quantity^ of 
Southern poetry, few even of the most popular of these have 
been introduced. 

Where possible, I have had each poem carefully corrected 
by its author. 

I have been warned that in certain quarters the poems are 
considered rebellious — incendiary, even — and as tending to re- 



■ Hftteface. vii 

vive a bitterness now buried and still. To these irrationals I 
have no word to say. I ask no favor at their hands, having 
sufficient confidence in my adopted children to trust them to 
stand alone. 

'^ If poems, born of revolution, bore no marks of the bitter 
need that crushed them from the hearts of their authors, they 
would have no value whatever, intrinsic or historical. 

The feelings that prompted them live no longer. The South 
put her cause in the hands of the God of Battles. She has 
made no murmur since his decree was spoken. 

A people who have accepted the inevitable with the dignified 
quiet of hers, can be taught no wrong by the repetition, in 
perfect peace, of words spoken to them while yet in the heat 
of a bitter struggle. 

The efiect of the war has been to raise the Southern charac- 
ter in the opinion of the North; and the feehng that the South 
is a conquered province — abject and bound — is fast dying out 
in the breadth of the land. These poems may aid in this 
good work ; but read at every fireside in the South, they are 
to-day as harmless as the '■'■Lays of Ancient Rome.'''' 

Their authors, whatever they may have beeil, are now simply 
private citizens. I shall not invade their sancta to search for 
the motives that impelled them. That they wrote honestly, 
none who read their words can doubt ; and I am well content 
to leave them in the hands of the public, saying only : 

'■'■By tlieir worlcs shall ye Tcnoio tliemy 

T. C. DE L. 
Baltimore, Md., February 15, 1866. 







PAGE 


Your Mission, ..... 


Anon, . 


. 15 


Burial of Latane, 


Jo/w^ H. Thompso7ij . 


20 


The Guerrillas, .... 


S. TeacMe Wallk, 


. 23 


The Lone Sentry, . . . 


James R. Randall^ . 


27 


Jackson, 


Harry Flashy 


. 29 


To the Exchanged Prisoners, 


Anon^ 


80 


The Hero without a Name, . 


Col W. S. HaicUns, 


. 33 


The Cavalier's Glee, . 


Wm. MacTcford, 


38 


The River, . ' . 


Raid H. Hayne, . 


. 40 


A Poem that needs no Dedication, 


J. Barron Hope^ 


44 


Dirge for Ashbt, .... 


Anon., . 


. 48 


A Ballad for the Young South, 


Joseph Brennan, 


51 


Ashbt, 


John R. Thompson^ 


. 56 


There's Life in the Old Land Yet, 


James R. Randall., . 


58 


A Cry to Arms, .... 


Henry Timrod, . 


. 60 


The Barefooted Boys, . 


-4no?i, 


63 


The Tennessee Exile's Song, . 


P. Y. P., . . 


. 65 


Somebody's Darling, 


Anon., 


67 


Monody on Jackson, .... 


The Exile, . 


. 69 


Coercion, 


John R. Thompson., . 


71 


The War Christian's Thanksgiving, 


8. TeacMe Wallis, 


. 75 


Virginians op the Valley, . 


Frank Ticknor, 


78 



In4e?c. 



The Ballad of the Eight, 


J. W. Overall, . 


80 


ZOLLICOFFER, 


Harry Flash, . 


83 


A Word with the West, 


John R. Thompson, 


84 


YOF CAN NEVER WiN THEM BaCK, . 


Anoriy 


88 


Beauregard's Appeal, . . 


Paul H. Hayne, . 


90 


The Cameo Bracelet, . 


James R. Randall, . 


92 


Melt the Bells, . . . 


Anon, 


94 


Cannon Song, .... 


Anon, 


96 


Battle Eye, . . . 


Susan Archer Talley, . 


98 


The Unreturning, .... 


Anon, 


99 


The Last op Earth, 


Col.W. S. HaioUns, 


101 


The Mother's Trust, . 


Mrs. G. A. H. McLeocl, 


104 


A General Invitation, 


I.R., . 


107 


The Brave at Home, . 


Anon, 


108 


Maryland, 


James R. Randall, 


110 


There's Life in the Old Land Yet, 


Frank Key Howard, 


114 


Lines after Defeat, .... 


Paid H. Hayne, . 


116 


England's Neutrality, . 


John R. Thompson, 


IIT 


The Fancy Shot, .... 


Anon, 


126 


Volunteered, 


Anon, 


128 


John Pelham, 


James R. Randall, 


131 


Obsequies op Stuart, . 


John R. Thompson, . 


133 


Is there any News of the War ? . 


Anon, 


ISY 


A Prayer for Peace, . . . 


S. Teackle Wallis, . 


139 


The Conquered Banner, . 


Moina, 


143 



Soutfj Songs. 



i 



SOUTH SONGS 



§0wr P^bsbn/'^ 

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, 

Turn the key on your jewels to-day, 
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses 

5raid back, in a serious way : 
No more delicate gloves — no more laces, 

1^0 more trifling in boudoir or bower; 
But come — with your souls in your faces — 

To meet the stern needs of the hour ! 

Look around! By the torch-light unsteady. 
The dead and the dying seem one. 

What ! paling and trembling already, 
Before your dear mission's begun? 

These wounds are more precious than ghastly; 
Time presses her lips to each scar, 



16 ¥out| ili$$ion. 



As she cliaunts of a glory which vastly 
Transcends all the horrors of war. 

Pause here by this bedside^^how mellow 

The light showers down on that brow ! 
Such a brave, brawny visage ! Poor fellow ! 

Some homestead is missing him now : 
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, 

Some mother sits moaning, distressed, 
While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing, 

With the enemy's ball in his breast. 

Here's another; a lad — a mere stripling — 

Picked up on the field, almost dead, 
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling 

From a horrible gash in the head. 
They say he was first in the action, 

Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty ; 
He fought, till he fell with exhaustion, 

At the gates of our fair Southern city. 

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, 
With a spirit transcending his years. 

Lift him up, in your large-hearted pity. 
And wet his pale lips with your tears. 



'^ixnui f^i$$ion. 17 



Toucli him gently — most sacred tlie duty 
Of dressing that poor shattered hand ! 

God spare him to rise in his beauty, 
And battle once more for his land! 

Who groaned ? What a j)assionate murmur — 

"J7^ T7ii/ mercy ^ God! let me die P'' 
Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer; 

That grapeshot has shattered his thigh. 
Fling the light on those poor furrowed features ; 

Gray-haired and unknown, bless the brother ! 
O God ! that one of Thy creatures 

Should e'er work such woe on another ! 

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your ker'».hief ; 

Let the stained, tattered collar go wide. 
See ! he stretches out blindly to search if 

The surgeon still stands at his side. 
" My soil's over yonder ! he's wounded— 

Oh! this hall thafs broken my thigh !^'' 
And again he burst out, all a- tremble, 

"J^i Thy mercy ^ God! let me die!'''' 

Pass on! It is useless to linger 

While others are claiming your care; 



18 llfoui^ P^i$$iott. 



There's need of your delicate finger, 
For your womanly sympathy, there. 

There are sick ones, athirst for caressing — 
There are dying ones, raving of home — 

There are wounds to be bound with a blessing — 
And shrouds to make ready for some. 

They have gathered about you the harvest 

Of death, in its ghastliest view ; 
The nearest, as well as the farthest. 

Is here with the traitor and true ! 
And crowned with your beautiful patience, 

Made sunny, with love at the heart, 
You must balsam the wounds of a nation, 

I^or falter, nor shrink from your part ! 

Up and down, through the wards, where the feve?: 

Stalks noisome, and gaunt, and impure. 
You must go, with your steadfast endeavor, 

To comfort, to counsel, to cure ! 
I grant that the task's superhuman, 

But strength will be given to you 
To do for these dear ones what woman 

Alone in her pity can do. 



¥out| P^i$$ion» 19 



And the lips of the mothers will bless you 

As angels, sweet- visaged and pale ! 
And the little ones ran to caress you, 

While the wives and sisters cry '•^HailP^ 
But e'en if you drop down unheeded, 

What matter ? God's ways are the best ! 
You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, 

And He will take care of the rest ! 



20 ^he 'Bn^hl ol X^aiano. 



The combat raged not long, but ours the day ; 

And, through the hosts that compassed us around, 
Our little band rode proudly on its way, 
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, 
Unburied on the field he died to gain — 
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain. 

One moment on the battle's edge he stood — 

Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair — 
The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood, 

Prostrate in death ; and yet, in death how fair ! 
Even thus he passed through the red gates 

of strife. 
From earthly crowns and palms, to an immor- 
tal life. 

A brother bore his body from the field. 

And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed 
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, 
And tenderly the slender limbs composed : 

Strangers, yet sisters, who,- with Mary's love, 
Sat by the open tomb, and weeping, looked 
above. 



^he Bursal of 3iaiane. 21 



little child strewed roses ou his bier — 
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, 
or yet more fragrant than his life sincere. 
That blossomed with good actions — brief, but 
whole ; 
The ao-ed matron and the faithful slave 

o 

Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's 
lowly grave. 

o man of God might say the burial rite 
Above the " rebel " — thus declared the foe 
lat blanched before him in the deadly fight ; 
But woman's voice, with accents soft and low. 

Trembling with pity — touched with pathos — 
read 

Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. 

'Tis soivn in loealcness^ it is raised in power V 
Softly the promise floated on the air, 
liile the low breathings of the sunset horn- 
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. 
Gently they laid him underneath the sod, 
And left him with his fame, his country, and 
his God! 



22 (ghe Bumal oi tiniam. 



Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure ! 

So young, so brave, so beautiful ! He died 
As he had wished to die ; the past is sure ; 
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide 

Those who still linger by the stormy shore, 
Change can not harm him now, nor fortune 
touch him more. 

And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, 

Victrix et Vidua — the conflict done — 
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear 
That starts, as she recalls each martyred son, 
1^0 prouder memory her breast shall sway 
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane ! 



^he fuerLrLilla$. 23 



Awake and to horse ! my brothers, 
For the dawn is glimmering gray, 

And hark ! in the crackling brushwood 
There are feet that tread this way ! 

*'Who Cometh?" "A friend!" "What tidings?" 
" O God ! I sicken to tell ; 
For the earth seems earth no longer, 
And its sights are sights of hell ! 

" There's rapine, and fire, and slaughter, 
From the mountain down to the shore ; 
There's blood on the trampled harvest, 
And blood on the homestead floor ! 

" From the far off conquered cities 
Comes the voice of a stifled wail. 
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless 
Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale ! 

" I've seen, from the smoking village 
Our mothers and daughters fly ! 



24 ^ho f uot|i|iUa$. 



I've seen, wliere the little children 
Sank down in the furrows, to die ! 

'' On the banks of the battle-stained river 
I stood, as the moonlight shone. 
And it glared on the face of my brother, 
As the sad wave swept him on ! 

*' Wliere my home was glad, are ashes. 

And horror and shame had been there; 
For I found, on the fallen lintel, 
This tress of my wife's torn hair ! 

" They are turning the slave upon us. 

And with more than the fiend's worst art, 
Have uncovered the fires of the savage. 
That slept in his untaught heart ! 

" The ties to our hearths that bound him, 
They have rent, with curses, away. 
And maddened him, with their madness, 
To be almost as brutal as they. 

*' With halter, and torch, and Bible, 

And hymns, to the sound of the drum, 



^he ^U6t|tii)la$. 25 



They preach the gospel of murder, 
And pray for lust's kingdom to come ! 

" To saddle ! to saddle ! my brothers ! 
Look up to the rising sun, 
And ask of the God who shines there. 
Whether deeds like these shall be done. 

"Wherever the vandal cometh, 

Press home to his heart with your steel; 
And where'er at his bosom ye can not, 
Like the serpent, go strike at his heel. 

*' Through thicket and wood go hunt him ; 
Creep up to his camp-fire side ! 
And let ten of his corpses blacken 
Where one of our brothers hath died ! 

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, 

In his flight from the stricken fray, 
In the snare of the lonely ambush. 
The debts that we owe him, j^ay ! 

" In God's hand alone is judgment. 

But He strikes with the hands of men, 



26 tBU f uet|^illa$. 



And His blight would wither our manhood, 
If we smote not the smiter again. 

"By the graves where our fathers slumber, 
By the shrines where our mothers prayed, 
By our homes, and hopes, and freedom, 
Let every man swear on his blade — 

" That he will not sheath nor stay it 
Till from point to heft it glow, 
With the flush of Almighty vengeance, 
In the blood of the felon foe !" 

They swore ; and the answering sunlight 
Leapt red from their lifted swords. 

And the hate in their hearts made echo 
To the wrath in their burning words ! 

There's weeping in all New-England, 
And by Schuylkill's bank a knell ; 

And the widows there, and the orphans. 
How the oath was kept can tell. 



)he Lono ^entt|y» 21 



^^t 'gom S-cntrs. 



(III.) 



'TwAS as the dying of the day, 

The darkness grew so still ; 
The drowsy pipe of evening birds 

Was hushed upon the hill. 
Athwart the shadows of the vale 

Slumbered the men of might ; 
And one lone sentry paced his rounds 

To watch the camp that night. 

A grave and solemn man was he, 

With deep and sombre brow ; 
The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up 

Some unaccomplished vow. 
The wistful glance peered o'er the plain, 

Beneath the starry light ; 
And, with the murmured name of God,- 

He watched the camp that night. 

The future opened unto him 
Its grand and awful scroll — 

Manassas and the valley march 
Came heaving o'er his soul ; 



28 t$U Xsom ^onttfD, 



Riclimond and Sliarpsburgli tliiindered by, 

With, that tremendous fight 
That gave him to the angel host, 

Who watched the camp that night. 

We mourn for him, who died for us, 

With one resistless moan, 
While up the Valley of the Lord 

He marches to the Throne ! 
Pie kept the faith of jnen and saints 

Sublime, and pure, and bright ; 
He sleeps — and all is well with him 

Who watched the camp that night. 

Brothers ! the midnight of the cause 

Is shrouded in our fate — 
The demon Goths pollute our halls 

With fire, and lust, and hate ! 
Be strong — be valiant — be assured — 

Strike home for Heaven and Right ! 
The soul of Jackson stalks ahroad^ 

And guards the. camp to-night! 



:taoli$on, 29 

!N"oT 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight, 
Kot in the rush upon the vandal foe, 
Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, 
Lay the Great Leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town. 
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the Mood that flecks the ground, 
Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, 
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the N'ation's Promised Land, 
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth ; 
But broke the House of Bondage with his hand— 
The Moses of the South ! 

O gracious God ! not gainless is the loss : 
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; 
And, while his country staggers with the Cross, 
He rises with the Crown ! 



30 $0 tlve Exchanged 3?m$ow$i:i$. 



^^0 % ^^Tljaitgeir ^§xmmxn. 

The anchors are weighed, and the gates of your 
prison 
Fall wide, as your ship gives her prow to the 
foam, 
And a few hurried hours shall return you exulting, 
Where the flag you have fought for floats over 
your home. 

God send that not long may its folds be uplifted 
O'er fields dark and sad with the trail of the 
fight- 
God give it the triumph He always hath given, 
Or sooner or later, to Valor and ^ Right ! 

But if peace may not yet wreath your homes with 
her olive, 
And new victims are still round the altar to 
bleed, 
God shield you amid the red bolts of the battle ! 
God give you stout hearts for high thought and 
brave deed ! 



^0 the Exchanged :i|^tiI$oneti$. 31 



^"0 need we should bid you go strike for your 
freedom — 
You have stricken, like men, for its blessings 
before. 
And your homes and your loved ones, your wrongs 
and your manhood. 
Will nerve you to fight the good fight o'er and 
o'er ! 

But will you not think, as you wave your glad ban- 
ners. 

How the flag of old Maryland, trodden in shame, 
Lies sullied and torn in the dust of her highways — 

And will you not strike a fresh blow in her name ? 

Her mothers have sent their first-born to be with 
you, 
Wherever with blood there are fields to be won — 
Her daughters have wept for you, clad you and 
nursed you- 
Their vows and their hopes and their smiles are 
your own. 

Let her cause be your cause, and whenever the 
war-cry 
Bids you rush to the field, oh ! remember her too — 



32 ^0 the Exchanged !t?)|i$onet|$' 



And when freedom and peace shall be blended in 
glory, 
Oh ! count it your shame if she be not with you. 

And if in the hour when pride, honor, and duty. 
Shall stir every throb in the hearts of brave men. 

The wrongs of the helpless can quicken such pulses, 
Let the captives at Warren give flame to them 
then. 



1$ 3^et|o without a l^amo. 33 



^^t Pcr0 foiilj0ut K P^ame* 

I LOVED, when a child, to seek the page 

Where war's proud tales are grandly told, 
And to read of the might of that former age, 

In the brave, good days of old ; 
When men for Virtue and Honor fought 

In serried ranks, 'neath their banners briglit, 
By the fairy hands of beauty wrought. 

And broidered with " God and JRightP 

'Twas there I read of Sir Launcelot true, 

Whose deeds have been sung in a nobler strain; 
And of Roderic, the Bold, who his falchion drew, 

In the cause of his native Spain ; 
And, in thought, I beheld gay Sidney ride — 

His white plume dotting the field's expanse ; 
And Bayard, who came like the swirl of the tide, 

As he struck for the lilies of France. 

On the crags of Scotland then I saw, 
With his hair of golden hue, Montrose ; 

And the swarthy Douglas, whose name was law 
In the homes of his English foes. 



34 ^he 1$^(x without a "^ame. 



There was Winkelried, in the Swiss-land famed ; 

And the mountaineers' boast — devoted Tell — 
Before whose patriot shaft, well-aimed, 

His country's tyrant fell. 

'Neath Erin's flag, with its glad sunburst, 

Was Emmett, the first in that martyr van, 
Whose blood makes sacred the gibbet accursed. 

Where they died for the rights of man. 
There was Light-Horse Harry, the first in the fray, 

There was Marion leading his cavaliers — 
And Washington, too, whose grave to-day, 

Is the shrine of patriot tears. 

These splendid forms were part of the throng 

That delighted me, moving in pageant grand. 
Through the wastes of time and the fields of song. 

From the legends of every land. 
But little I hoped myself to see 

A spirit akin to these stately men ; 
Or dreamed that great hearts, like theirs, could be 

In a prison's crowded pen. 

Yet, I've seen in the Avards of the hospital there, 
A hero, I fancy, as peerless of soul; 



^ho '^^o■ without a "t^ame. 35 



A pale-faced boy, wliose home is fair, 
"Where the waters of Cumberland roll. 

On his narrow cot, in that narrow room, 
"Where the music he hears is the sigh and the 
groan. 

He lies through the day's long pain and gloom, 
But he never makes a moan ! 

They hewed him down with their blades of steel. 

Where the troopers charged from the camp of the 
foe; 
But he was not killed — although I feel. 

It would have been better so ; 
For my heart within me is very sad, 

As I sit and hold his wasted hand, 
And hear him tell of the days that were glad, 

In our own dear, sunny land. 

There are hours, again, in his fever's heat. 

When his restless fancies fly to his home : 
And he talks of the scythe in the falling wheat, 

And the reapers that go and come ; 
Of his boyish mates, in their frolicsome glee. 

In the cedarn glades and the woodlawns dim; 
And how he carved there on many a tree, 

A name that was dear to him ; 



36 ^he l$zi;[ix vcxihrni ^ "J^ame. 



Of the sweet wild roses that scatter the light, 

Through the open door and the window-pane ; 
And October's haze, on the far off height — 

And the quiet country lane ; 
Of the rivulet's plash, and the song of birds, 

And the corn rows, standing like men wdth spears ; 
Of his mother's tones, and her loving words — 

And his cheeks are wet with tears. 

And I seem to see her, as autumn leaves 

Like shadows fall in the lonely glen, 
And the swallows come home to those silent eaves, 

Where he shall not come again. 
And then I rejoice that she can not see. 

How the blight has stained her fairest bloom ; 
I am glad her footstep will never be 

Beside his northern tomb. 

And I think of another, who watches too. 

When the early stars are bright on the hill, 
Nor dreams that his heart — so confiding and true — 

Will soon be forever still. 
Ah! many, in vain, to their hopes shall cling, 

Through the dreary morn and the mournful eve; 
And memory alone shall its solace bring. 

To a thousand hearts that grieve. 



^he 'M^^ without a l^ame. 37 



My comrade will last but a little while ; 

For I see on every succeeding day, 
A fainter flush — but a sweeter smile — 

Over his features play. 
And he knows that until he is under the sod, 

These walls, little better, shall shut him in ; 
But his soul puts trust in the Lamb of God, 

That taketh away all sin ! 

And somehow I think, Avhen our lives are done, 

That this humble hero — without a name — 
Will be greater up there, than many a one 

Of the high-born men of fame. 
And I know I would rather wear to-day. 

The crown that is his, with its fadeless bloom. 
Than Roderic's helili, so golden and gay, 

Or Sidney's snow-white plume! 

O prisoner boy! that I were as near. 

As you are now to that "shining shore," 
Where the waters of life and of love are clear. 

And weeping shall come no more. 
Et can not be now; yet, in God's own time. 

When He calls his weary ones home to rest. 
May I join with you in the angel chime — 

Like you, be a welcome guest | 



88 t$U (^avalietfa (ple^. 



Spur on! spur on! we love tlie bounding 
Of barbs, that bear us to tbe fray : 
" The charge^'' our bugles now are sounding 
And our bold Stuart leads the way ! 
The path to honor lies before us ; 

Our hated foemen gather fast ! 
At home, bright eyes are sparkling for us, 
And we'll defend them to the last ! 

Spur on ! spur on ! we love the rushing 

Of steeds that spurn the turf they tread ; 
Tye'll through the northern ranks go crushing, 
With our proud banner overhead ! 

The path to honor lies before us, 
Our hated foemen gather fast ! 
At home, bright eyes are sparkling for us, 
And we'll defend them to the last ! 

Spur on ! spur on ! we love the flashing 

Of blades that battle for the free ! 
'Tis for our sunny south they're clashing — 

For household gods and liberty ! 



^he ^avalieti'$ $lee. 39 



Tlie path to honor lies before us ; 

Our hated foemen gather fast ! 
At home, bright eyes are sparkling for us, 

And we'll defend them to the last! 



40 t$h(s %\V61[. 



They slept on tlie field that their valor had won ! 
But arose with the first, early blush of the sun, 
For they knew that a great deed remained to be 
done, 
When they passed o'er the river. 

They rose with the sun, caught new life from his 

light— 
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight — 
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their 

might. 
Marching swift for the River. 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the 

hills— 
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills — 
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant 
and thrills, 
At the thought of the River. 



^he %\v^* 41 



Ou ! the sheen of their swords ! the fierce gleam of 

then* eyes ! 
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, 
And king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies. 
O'er the path to the River. 

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened 

with gore — 
On a strong wind of morn streaming wildly before- 
Like the wings of Death-angels, swept fast to the 

shore, 
The green shore of the River. 

As they march — from the hill-side, the hamlet, the 

stream — 
Gaunt throngs, whom the foeman had manacled, 

teem, 
Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, 
To pass o'er the River. 

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, 

yet fair. 
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair. 
While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air, 
Rolling out to the River. 



42 ^he Eiv^tf 



And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings 

spread, 
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, 
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the 

dead — 
Ay ! press on to the River. 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the 

hills— 
On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, 
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant 

and thrills 
As they pause by the River. 

Then the wan face of Maryland — haggard and worn — 
At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn. 
As she turned on her foemen, full statured in scorn, 
Pointing stern to the River. 

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her 

breast, 
With her low-lying billows kissed warm by the 

west; 
For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest 
Of the far rolling River. 



10 Bivet^. 43 



Passed ! passed ! the glad thousands march safe 

through the tide — 
(Hark, despots! and hear the wild knell of your 

pride 
Ringing weird-like and wild — pealing up from the 

side 
Of the calm flowing River.) 

'!N"eath a blow swift and mighty, the tyrant shall 

fall ! 
Yain ! vain ! to his God swells the desolate call ! 
For his grave has been hollowed and woven his 

pall, 
As they passed o'er the River. 



d 

cs 

at 



44 M !Po$m thai neo4$ no 3^e4icaiion. 



"What! ye hold yourselves as freemen? 

Tyrants love just such as ye ! 
Go ! abate your lofty manner ! 
Write upon the State's old banner, 
"^ furore JSformanorum^ 
Libera nos, O Domme ! " 

Sink before the Federal altar, 

Each one, low on bended knee ; 
Pray, with lips that sob and falter, 
This prayer from a coward's Psalter: 
'-'•A furore Normanormn^ 
Libera nos, Lomine/^^ 

But ye hold that quick repentance 
In the Northern mind will be; 
This repentance comes no sooner 
Than the robber's did, at Luna. 
"^ furore Nonnanorum, 
Libera nos, O Domine ! " 



M ilfoem thai nee4$ no dedication. 45 



He repented him ; the Bishop 
Gave him absolution free — 
Poured upon him sacred chrism 
In the pomp of his baptism. 

"^ furore JVbrmanorum, 
Libera nos, Domitie/^^ 

He repented; then he sickened 
Was he pining for the sea ? 
Jn extremis he was shriven. 
The viaticum was given : 

" A furore Normanormn^ 
Libera nos^ Lomine ! " 

Then the old cathedral's choir 

Took the plaintive minor key, 
With the host upraised before him, 
Down the marble aisle they bore him 
"^ furore Normanorum^ 
Libera nos, JDomine / " 

While the Bishop and the Abbot, 
All the monks of high degree — 
Chanting praise to the Madonna, 
Came to do him Christian honor. 
" A furore JSformanorum^ 
Libera nos^ O Domine ! " 



46 M !t?oem that needs no dedication. 



Xow tlie Miserere's cadence 

Takes the voices of the sea; 
As the music-billows quiver 
See the dead freebooter shiver ! 
"^ furore JS^'ormanorum^ 
Libera 7ios, Doraine ! " 

Is it that those intonations 

Thrill him thus, from head to knee ? 

Lo ! his cerements burst asunder ! 

'Tis a sight of fear and wonder ! 
'-^A furore Normanorum^ 
Libera nos^ Doraine ! " 

Fierce he stands before the Bishop — 

Dark as shape of Destinie ! 
Hark ! a shriek ascends aj^palling ! 
Down the prelate goes — dead — falling ! 
"^ furore Normanorum^ 
Libera nos^ Domine ! " 

Hastixg lives I he was but feigning ! 

What ! Repentant ? ^ever he ! 
Down he smites the priests and friars, 
And the city lights with fires. 

'•^A furore Kormanormn^ 
Libera ?ios, O Domine ! " 



M !^oem ihat n$e4$ no B$4icaiion. 47 



Ah ! the children and the maidens, 
'Tis in vain they strive to flee ! 
Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding 
Is no place for tearful pleading, 
'^A furore JSformanorum, 
Libera 7ios, Domine/^^ 

Louder swells the frightful tumult — • 

Pallid death holds revelrie! 
Dies the organ's mighty clamor 
By the Norseman's iron hammer ! 
"^ furore N~ormanorum^ 
Libera nos, O L^ojnme/^^ 

So they thought that he'd repented ! 

Had they nailed him to a tree, 
He had not deserved their pity. 

And they had not lost their city, 

'^A furore Normanorum^ 
Libera nos, Domine!'''* 

For the moral in this story. 

Which is plain as truth can be : 
If we trust the North's relenting, 
We will shriek, too late repenting, 
"^ furore JSformanorwn, 
Libera nos, Lomine!^'' 



48 Mni^z fotj crabby. 



gxxs^ fox %n]^h^. 

Heaed ye that thrilling word- 
Accent of dread! 
Fall like a thunderbolt, 

Bowing each head? 
Over the battle dun — 
Over each booming gun — 

Ashhy^ our bravest one! 
Ashhy is dead I 

Saw ye the veterans — 

Hearts that had known 
Never a quail of fear, 

Never a groan — 
Sob 'mid the fight they win, 
Tears their stern eyes within? 
Ashhy ^ our paladin / 
Ashhy is dead! 

Dash, dash the tear away! 

Crush down the pain ! 
Dulce et decus be 

Fittest refrain. 



Bitjge ht[ Mhh^* 49 



Why should the dreary pall 
Round him be flung at all ? 
Did not our hero fall, 

Gallantly slain? 

Catch the last words of cheer 

Dropped from his tongue ! 
Over the volley's din 
Let them be rung ! 
*' Follow me ! Follow me / " 
Soldier! oh! could there be 
Paean, or dirge for thee 
Loftier sung ? 

Bold as the Lion's Heart — 

Dauntless and brave ; 
Knightly as knightliest 

Bayard could crave ; 
Sweet — with all Sidney's grace — 
Tender as Hampden's face — 
Who, who shall fill the space, 
Void by his grave ? 

'Tis not one broken heart, 
Wild with dismay — 



50 :t2)lri3e fori c^$hb^< 



Crazed in her agony — 
Weeps o'er his clay ! 
Ah ! from a thousand eyes 
Flow the pure tears that rise- 
Widowed YiKGiNiA lies 
Stricken to-day ! 

Yet, charge as gallantly, 

Ye whom he led! 
Jackson, the victor, still 

Stands at your head ! 
Heroes ! be battle done, 
Bravelier every one, 
Kerved by the thought alone- 
Ashhy is dead/ 



M m]M foTj the ¥ouna gouih. 51 



% ^allair for i^t §0itng Sautl^, 

Men of the South! Our foes are up 

In fierce and grim array ; 
Their sable banner laps the air — 

An insult to the day ! 
The saints of Cromwell rise again, 

In sanctimonious hordes, 
Hiding behind the garb of peace 

A million ruthless swords. 
From Xorth, and East, and West, they seek 

The same disastrous goal, 
With Cheist upon the lying lip. 

And Satan in the soul ! 
Mocking, with ancient shibboleth, 

All wise and just restraints: 
"7b saints of Heaven was empire given, 

And We, alone, are saints P' 

A preacher to the pulpit comes 

And calls upon the crowd, 
For Southern creeds and Southern hopes 

To weave a bloody shroud. 



52 M Ballad fon ihe Ifoung $outh. 



Beside the prayer-book, on his desk, 

The bullet-mould is seen; 
And near the Bible's golden clasp. 

The dagger's stately sheen; 
The simple tale of Bethlehem 

No more is fondly told, 
For every priestly surplice drags 

Too heavily with gold ; 
The blessed Cross of Calvary 

Becomes a sign of Baal, 
Like that which played when chieftains raised 

The clansmen of the Gael ! 

Hark to the howling demagogues — 

A fierce and ravenous pack — 
With nostrils prone, and bark, and bay, 

That close upon our track : 
" Down with the laws our fathers made I 

They bind our hearts no more ; 
Down with the stately edifice, 

Cemented with their gore ! 
Forget the legends of our race — 

Efi*ace each wise decree — 
Americans must kneel as slaves, 

Till Africanf5 are free! 



M Ballad fotj the ¥oung ^outh. 



Out on the mere Caucasian blood 

Of Teuton, Celt, or Gaul ! 
The stream that springs from Niger's source 

Must triumph over all !" 

So speaks a solemn senator 

Within those halls to-day. 
That echoed erst, the thunder-burst 

Of Webster and of Clay ! 
Look North, look East, look West — the scene 

Is blackening all around ; 
The negro cordon, year by year. 

Is fast and faster bound ; 
The black line crossed — the sable flag 

Surrounded by a host — 
Our out-post forced, our sentinels 

Asleep upon their posts ; 
Our brethren's life-blood flowing free. 

To stain the Kansas soil — 
And shed in vain, while pious thieves 

Are fattening on our toil ! 
Look North — look West — the ominous sky 

Is starless, moonless, black, 
And from the East comes lmn-}iiig up 

A sweepino; thunder-rack ! 



5-4 M Ballad fori the ¥ouns $outh. 



3Ien of the South! Ye have no kin 

With fanatics, or fools; 
Ye are not bound by breed, or birth, 

To Massachusetts rules ! 
A hundred nations gave their blood 

To feed these healthful springs. 
Which bear the seed of Jacques Ijonhomme, 

With those of Bourbon kings. 
The Danish ^^luck and sailor craft — 

The Huguenotic will — 
The Norman grace and chivalry — 

The German steady skill — 
The fiery Celt's impassioned thought 

Inspire the Southron's heart. 
Which has no room for bigot-gloom, 

Or pious plunder's art ! 

Sons of the brave! The time has come 

To bow the haughty crest. 
Or stand alone, despite the threats 

Of North, or East, or West ! 
The hour has come for manly deeds 

And not for puling words ; 
The place is passed for platform prate — 

It is the time for swords ! 



M Ballad fot{ the Ifoung §outh. 



Now, by the fame of John Caliioux, 

To honest truth be true ! 
And by old Jackson's iron will, 

Now do what ye can do! 
By all ye love — by all ye hope — 

Be resolute and proud ; 
And make your flag a symbol high 

Of triumph, or a shroud ! 

Men of the South ! Look up — behold 

The deep and sullen gloom, 
That darkles o'er our sunny land 

With thunder in its womb ! 
Are ye so blind ye can not see 

The omens in the sky? 
Are ye so deaf ye can not hear 

The tramp of foemen nigh ? 
Are ye so dull ye will endure 

The whips and scorn of men, 
Who wear the heart of Titus OxVte3 

Beneath the face of Penn ? 
Never, I ween ! and foot to foot, 

Ye now will gladly stand 
For land and life, for child and wife, 

With naked steel in hand ! 



&6 j\"8hba. 



To the brave all homage render ! 

Weep, ye skies of June ! 
With a radiance pure and tender, 

Shine, oh, saddened moon ! 
" Dead upon the field of glory ! " — \ 

Hero fit for song and story — 

Lies our bold dragoon ! - i 

Well they learned, Avhose hands have slain him, 
Braver, knightlier foe, J 

Never fought 'gainst Moor or Payniin — | 

Rode at Tempi estowe : 

With a mien how high and joyous, 

'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 
Went he forth, we know. 

N'ever more, alas ! shall sabre 

Gleam around his crest — 
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, 

Stilled his manly breast — 
All unheard sweet nature's cadence, 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens, 

Now he takes liis rest. 



c^shbij. 57 

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him, 

Gently wrap his clay! 
Linger lovingly around him, 

Liglit of dying day ! 
Softly fall, ye summer showers — 
Birds and bees, among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay ! 

Then, throughout the coming ages, 3 

When his sword is rust. 
And his deeds in classic pages — 

Mindful of her trust — 
Shall ViKGixiA, bending lowly, cl 

Still a ceaseless vigil holy ss 

Keep, above his dust! 



58 Rhone's IsHe m the old Jiand yet. 



Cljtrt's fife in iljc @It) f anir jjtt. ^"^ 

Br blue Patapsco's billo\Yy dasli, 

The tyrant's war-sliout comes, 
Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, 

And the growl of his sullen drums. 
We hear it ! w^e heed it, with vengeful thrills, , 

And we shall not forgive or forget — 
There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the 

hills— 
"There's life in the Old Land yet!" 

Minions ! we sleep, but we are not dead ; 

We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred ; 
We crouch — 'tis to welcome the triumph-tread 

Of the peerless Beauregard ! 
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde. 

When the Southern braves are met ; 
There's faith in the victor's stainless sword — 
" There's life in the Old Land yet !" 

Bigots ! ye quell not the valiant mind, 
With the clank of an iron chain ; 



^hcr^e*$ Xd\h in the old 3^an4 yet. 59 



The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind, 

O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane ! 
And we, though we smite not, are not thralls — 

We are piling a gory debt ; ■ 

E'en down by McHenry's dungeon walls, 
'' There's life in the Old Land yet ! " 

Our women have hung their harps away, 

And they scowl on your brutal bands, 3 

While the nimble .poignard dares the day 

In their dear, defiant hands ; 
They will strip their tresses to string our bows, 

Ere the Northern sun is set ; ,^ 

There's faith in their unrelenting woes — c 

"There's life in the Old Land yet!" 

There's life though it throbbeth in silent veins ; 

'Tis vocal, without noise ; 
It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains 
In the blood of the ^laryland hoys ! 
That blood shall cry aloud, and rise 

With an everlasting threat — 
By the death of the brave ! — by the God in the 

skies ! — ■ 
"There's life in the Old Land yet!" 



GO M fi;y to JVrms. 



% €x^ ia %n\x%. 



Ho ! woodsmen of the mountain side ! 

Ho ! dwellers in the vales ! 
Ho ! ye, tliat by the cJiafing tide 

Have roughened in the gales ! 
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, 

Lay by the bloodless spade ; 
Let desk, and case, and counter rot, 

And burn your books of trade! 

The despot roves your fairest lands, 

And till he flies, or fears, 
•Your fields must grow but armed b:\nds- 

Your sheaves be sheaves of spears ! 
Give up to mildew and to rust 

The useless tools of gain ; 
And feed your country's sacred dust 

With floods of crimson rain ! 

Come with the weapons at your call — 
With musket, i:>ike, or knife ; 

He wields the deadliest blade of all 
Who lightest holds his life. 



^ ^r^y to Mi\m^> Gl 



The arm that drives its uiibonght blows 

With all a patriot's scorn, 
Might brain a tyrant with a rose, 

Or stab him with a thorn ! 

Does any falter? let him turn 

To some brave maiden's eyes, 
And catch the holy fires that burn 

In those sublunar sides. 
Oh ! could you like your women feel 

And in their spirit march, 
A day might see your lines of steel 

Beneath the victor's arch ! 

What hope, O God! would not grow warm 

When thouo^hts like these o^ive clieer ? 
The lily calmly braves the storm — 

And shall the palm-tree fear? 
[Ro ! rather let its branches court 

The rack that sweeps the plain ; 
And from the lily's regal port 

Learn how to breast the str lii]. 

Ho ! woodsmen of the mountahi side 
IIo ! dwellers in the vales ! 



C2 ^ ^i|i) to Mv,n\$. 



Ho ! ye, that by the roaring tide, 
Have roughened in the gales ! 

Come ! flocking gayly to the fight, 
From forest, hill, and lake ! 

We battle for our country's right 
And for the lily's sake ! 



^h^ Baijefooted Boys. 03 



By the sword of St. Micliael 

The old dragon through ! 
By David his sling, 

And the giant he slew ! 
Let us write us a rhyme, 

As a record to tell, 
How the South on a time 

Stormed the ramparts of hell 

With her barefooted boys ! 

Had the South in her border 

A hero to sj^are. 
Or a heart at her altar, 

Lo ! its life's blood was there ! 
And the black battle-grime 

Might never disguise 
The smile of the South, 

On the Yips and the eyes 

Of her barefooted boys ! 

There's a graudeur in hght. 
And a terror the while. 



cs 



04 ^ho Batj8fooie4 Boya. 



But none like tlie liglit 

Of that terrible smile — 
The smile of the South, 

When the storm-cloud unrolls 
The lightning that loosens 

The wrath in the souls 

Of her barefooted boys ! 

It Avithered the foe 

Like the red light that runs 
Through the dead forest leaves, 

And he fled from his guns ! 
Grew the smile to a laugh. 

Rose the laugh to a yell, 
As the iron-clad hoofs 

Clattered back into hell 

From our barefooted boys. 



^he (genneaaee Bxile'$ i^ong. 65 



I HEAE tlie rushing of lier streams, 
The murmuring of her trees, 

The exile's anguish SAYells my heart 
And melts with each soft breeze. 

'Midst other scenes her corn-hills wave, 
Her mountains pierce the sky — 

Where, where are they who swore to save- 
To conquer, or to die ? 

They come, from every blue hill-side. 

From every lovely dale, 
The heart, the soul, the very pride 

Of mountain, hill, and vale. 
Stalwart, they court like Anak's sons, 

The rapture of the strife ; 
Drink in the earthquake of the guns, 

To them the breath of life. 

Spare not the invading mongrel hordes. 

But slay them as they stand ! 
Strike ! Tennessee has living swords, 

The best in all the land ! 



60 ^bo (?enne$$ee Exile's $ong. 



Strew o'er her plains their hostile lines, 
Drench her fair fields with blood, 

Fill their long ranks with bitter groans- 
Let blood flow like a flood ! 

Ay, sow the seeds of lasting hate 

At Johnson's, Hatlin's graves. 
And do their deeds and dare their fate, 

Or live the oppressors' slaves! 
Bleed freely, as you bled of yore. 

In every well-fought field, 
Press round the flag you always bore 

The foremost — as a shield 



I feel her pulse beat high and quick, 

Her sinews stretch for strife, 
Full come her heart-throbs deep and thick, 

She kindles into life ! 
Though Donelson has told her tale. 

And Shiloh's page is bright, 
There's yet a bloodier field to win, 

For Xasliville and the ridit ! 



gomebo^D's Barjing. 67 



Into a ward of the wliitewashed walls 

Where the dead and the dying lay — 
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls — 

Somebody's darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's darling ! so young and so brave, 

Wearing still on his pale, sweet face — 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave — 

The lingering light of his boyliood's grace. 

Matted and damj) are the curls of gold. 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow : 
Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from the beautiful, blue-veined face 

Brush every wandering, silken thread ; 
Cross his hands as a sign of grace — 

Somebody's darling is still and dead ! 

Kiss him once for somebodifs sake ; 

Murmur a prayer, soft and low ; 
One bright curl from the cluster take — 

They were somebody's pride, you know. 



08 $omebo4u'$ l^a^ilmg. 



Somebody's hand hath rested there ; 

Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those Avaves of light ? 

God knows best. He was somebody's love ; 

Somebody's heart enshrined him here ; 
Somebody wafted his name above, 

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away, 

Looking so handsome, brave and grand ; 
Somebody's kiss^ on his forehead lay ; 

Somebody clung to his parting hand — 

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, 

Yearnino^ to hold him asfain to her heart : 
There he lies — with the blue eyes dim. 

And smiling, child-like lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear, 
Carve on the wooden slab at liis head, 

" JSomehody'^s darling lies buried here ! " 



Gt^ono^y on i^acbsoii. 09 



Ay, toll ! toll ! toll ! 

Toll tlie funeral bell ! 
So let its mournful echoes roll 
From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, 
O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul 

That ever in battle fell. 

Yes, weep ! weep ! weep ! 

Weep for the hero fled ! 
For Death, the greatest of soldiers, at last 
Has o'er our leader his black pall cast. 
From earth his noble form hath passed 

To the home of the miglity dead. 

Then toll ! and weep ! and mourn ! 

Mourn the fall of the brave ! 
For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation 

|jrond, 
Whose very name was a war-song loud. 
With the " crimson cross " for his martial 
shroud — 
Now sleeps his long sleej^ in the grave. 



Plouodij on ^acbson. 



His form has i^assed away — 

His voice is silent and still — 
No more, at tlie head of "the old brigade" — 
The daring men who were never dismayed — 
Will he lead them to glory that never can fade 

Stonewall, of the Iron Will ! 

He fell as a hero should fall; 

'Mid the thunder of war he died. 
While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared, 
And the blood of the friend and foeman poured, 
He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword 

That erst was the nation's pride. 

Virginia, his mother, is bowed ; 

Her eyelids heavy and low. 
From all the South comes tlie wailing moan. 
And mountain and valley reecho the groan. 
For the gallant chief of her clans has flown — 

The nation is filled with woe. 

Rest, warrior ! rest ! 

Rest in thy laureled tomb ! 
Thy mem'ry shall live to earth's latest years, 
Thy name shall still raise the despot's fears, 
While over thee falls a nation's tears ; 

Tliy deeds shall not perish in gloom! 



Coercion. Tl 



A POEil FOR THEN AND NO\Y. 

Who talks of Coercion ? wlio dares to deny 
A resolute people the right to l)e free ? 

Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, 
Or curb with his fetter the wave of the sea ! 

Who i^rates of Coercion? can love be restored 
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell ? 

Can peace on earth be i^i'oclaimed by the sword, 
Or good-will among men be established by shell? 

Shame ! shame ! — that the statesman and trickster, 
forsooth, 

Should have for a crisis no other recourse. 
Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, 

Than the old hrutam falmen of tyranny, — force ! 

From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate 
slink away ; 
From the crypt in which Error lies buried in 
chains ; 



^2 (^oeijcion. 

This foil! apparition stalks forth to the day, 

And would ravage the land vv^hich his presence 
profanes. 

Could you conquer us, Men of tlie N'orth — could you 
b ring- 
Desolation and death on our homes as a flood — 

Can you hope the pure lily. Affection, will spring 
From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? 

Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye 
not 

What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar ? 
How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot ! 

How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar! 

But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun 
Is a nutrix leonum^ and suckles a race 

Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one, 
Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace. 

And well may the schemers in office beware 
Tlie swift retribution that waits npon crime, 

When the lion. Resistance, shall leap from his lair, 
With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. 



Coercion. T3 



Once, Men of the North, we were brothers, and 
still, 
Though brothers no more, Ave would gladly be 
friends ; 

Nor join in a conflict accursed, tliat must fill 
With ruin the country on which it descends. 

But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage 
The gods gave to all whom they wished to des- 
troy, 

You w^ould act a new Iliad, to darken the age 
With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy — 

If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries. 

When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore. 

You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes 
Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar — 

If there be to your malice no limit imposed. 
And you purpose hereafter to rule wdth the rod 

The men upon wdiom you have already closed 
Our goodly domain and the temples of God ; 

To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold, 
And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar; 



74 ^oeticion. 



We greet yon, as greeted the Swiss Charles, the 
Bold— 
With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war ! 

For the courage that clings to our soil, ever briglit. 

Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide ', 
Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight. 

With the smile of the fair, tlie j^ure kiss of the 
bride ; 

And the bugle its echoes shall send through the 
past, 
In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain ; 
While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at 
the blast. 
And give up its heroes to glory again. 



$he '(^a)|-(^bi:[i$tiaiV$ thanksgiving. 



RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE WAR-CLEROY OF THE UNITED 
STATES, BISHOPS, PRIESTS, AND DEACONS. 



Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently, and cursed be he that 
eepeth back his sword from hlood.~Jere}niaJi 48 : 10. 



O God of Battles! once again, 
With banner, trump, and drum, 

And garments in Thy wine-press dyed, 
To give Thee thanks, we come! 

No goats or bullocks, garlanded. 

Unto thine altars go — 
With brothers' blood, by brothers shed. 

Our glad libations flow. 

From pest-house and from dungeon foul 
Where, maimed and torn, they die ; 

From gory trench and charnel-house. 
Where, heap on heap, they lie : 

In every groan that yields a soul, 
Each shriek a heart that rend< — 



To ^ho Mai|-(^hr{l$tiaiV$ ^hanhsgivin^. 



With every breath of tainted air 
Our homage, Lord, ascends. 



We thank thee for the sabre's gasli, 

The cannon's havoc wild ; 
We bless Thee for the widow's tears, 

The want that starves her child. 

We give Thee praise, .that Thou hast lit 
The torch and fanned the flame ; 

That lust and rapine hunt their prey. 
Kind Father! in Thy name; 

That, for the songs of idle joy 

False angels sang of yore, 
Thou sendest War on Earth, 111 Will 

To Men, for evermore. 

We know that wisdom, truth, and right 

To us and ours are given — 
That thou hast clothed us with the v\'rath 

To do the work of Heaven. 

We know that plains and cities waste 
Are pleasant in Thine eyes ; 



^he t^at[-(^Hrii$tian^$ ^hanfe$giving« 77 



Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, 
Thou lov'st a mourner's cries. 

Let not our weakness fall below 

The measure of Thy will, 
And while the press hath wine to bleed, 

Oh ! tread it with us still ! 

Teach us to hate — as Jesus taught 
Fond fools, of yore, to love — 

Grant us Thy vengeance as our own, 
Thy Pity, hide above. 

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, 

The pages of Thy word. 
And hail the blessed curses there. 

On them that sheathe the sword. 

Where'er we tread, may deserts spring. 

Till none are left to slay ; 
And when the last red drop is shed, 

We'll kneel again — and pray! 



78 l^itjginians of the "Pallet). 



810 JURAT. 

The knightliest of tlie knightly race, 

Who, since the days of old, 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold — 
The kindliest of the kindly band 

Who rarely hated ease, 
Who rode with Smith around the land 

And Raleigh round the seas! 

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, 

Amid embattled foes, 
And planted there, in valleys fair, 

The lily and the rose ; 
Whose fragrance lives in many lands, 

Whose beauty stars the earth, 
And lights the hearths of many homes 

With loveliness and worth! 

We thought they slept ! these sons who kept 
The names of noble sires, 



i^iviginiana of the "galley. V9 



And slumbered, while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires! 
But still the Golden Horse-shoe knights, 

Their Old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground, 

But not a knight asleep! 



80 ^he Kallad of the K^U. 



m^i iailatj of % ^igljl. 

In other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and 

free, 
For those they left behind them, on the Island of 

the Sea; 
They fought the battles of King George and toasted 

him in song — 
For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny 

of "Wrong. 

But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax 

upon the tea, 
The western men rose up and braved the Island of 

the Sea; 
And swore a solemn oath to God, those men of 

iron might — ■ 
That at their hands the Wrong should die and up 

should go the Right! 

The King sent over hireling hosts — Briton, Hessian, 
Scot— 

And swore in turn those Western men, when cap- 
tured, should be shot; 



$he Ballaa of iho Bi^Ht. 81 



Vhile Chatliam spoke with earnest tongue against 

the hireling throng, 
^nd mournful saw the Right go down, and place 

give to the Wrong. 

Jut God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's 

sword was out, 
Vith clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's 

thunder-shout ; 
^nd crimson torrents drenched the land through that 

long, stormy fight, 
>ut in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by 

the Right ! 

Lnd when again the foemen came from out the 
Northern Sea, 

'o desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, 

)ur fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles 
keen and long, 

Lnd swore a mighty oath the Right should subju- 
gate the Wrong. 

Lnd while the world was looking on, the strife un- 
certain grew, 
>ut soon al:)ft rose up our stars amid a field of blue ; 



82 t$U Ballaa of the BigHi 



For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won tl e 

glorious fight, 
And then the Wrong went down, hurrah ! and triumph 

crowned the Right! 

The day has come again, when all who love the 

beauteous South, 
Must speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by 

the cannon's mouth ; 
For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech 

and song, 
Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify 

the Wrong. 

But canting knave of pen and sword, or sanctimo- 
nious fool, 

Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, 
and rule; 

We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars 
of night. 

And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall 
perish by the Right. 



^ollicoffetj. 83 



Mollmikx. 

FiEST in the fight, and first in the arms 
Of the white-winged angels of glory, 

With the heart of the South at the feet of God, 
And his wounds to tell the story; 

For the blood that flowed from his hero heart, 
On the spot where he nobly perished, 

Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament 
In the holy cause he cherished! 

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, 

And for his soul's sustaining 
The apocalyptic eyes of Christ — 

And nothing: on earth remaining:, 



"& 



But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, 

A name in song and story — 
And fame to shout with immortal voice: 

Dead on" the field of Glory ! 



84 j^ Mond with the ^e$t. 



% Morir foitlj ilje Mt^. 



(Yii.) 






OxcE more to the breach for the Land of the West ! 
And a leader we give, of our bravest and best, 

Of his State and his army the pride ; 
Hope shines like the plume of N'avarre on his crest, 

And gleams in the glaive at his side. 

For his courage is keen and his honor is bright 
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight, 

N'ewly wrought in the forges of Spain, ^''''-^ 
And this weapon, like all he has brandished for Right, 

Will never be dimmed by a stain. 

He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind, 
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, 

Where lie the fresh fields of his fame ; 
Where the murmurous pines, ^""-^ as they sway in the 
wind, 

Seem ever to whisper his name. 

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, 
And their motto a noble distinction confers, 

^^ jEJvei* Eeady^^ — for friend or for foe — 



M MoH^ with iU m^t 85 



^Vitli a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs 
The large, manly heart of our Joe. 

^e recall that a former bold chief of the clan 
ell, bravely defending the "West, in the van. 
On Shiloh's illustrious day ; 
^nd with reason we reckon our Johnston the man 
The dark, bloody debt to repay. 

There is much to be done : if not glory to seek, 
There's a just and a terrible vengeance to wreak 

For crimes of a terrible dye, 
While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak 

In a chorus rise up to the sky. 

•"or the Wolf of the North, we once drove to his 

den. 
That quailed in affright 'neath the stern glance of 
men. 
With his pack has returned to the spoil; 
Then come from the hamlet, the mountain, the glen. 
And drive him again from the soil ! 

Brave-born Tennesseans, so loyal, so true, 
Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, oi yoi(, 
Our leader has never a doubt j 



c^ movfi with tU Meet. 



You will troop by the tlionsand tlie chase to renew 
The day when his bugles ring out. 

But ye " HuxTEES " so famed " or Kentucky " of 

yore, 
AVliere, where are the rifles that kept from your door 

The wolf and the robber as Avell ? 
Of a truth, you have neyer been laggard before 

To deal with a savage so fell. 

Has the love you once bore to your country grown 

cold? 
Has the fire on the altar died out ? Do you hold 

Tour lives than your freedom more dear? 
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, 

Or basely take counsel of fear ? 

We will not believe it — Kextuckt, the land 
Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand 

That disgraces the dastard, the slave; 
The hour of redemption draws nigh — is at hand — 

Her own sons her own honor shall save! 

Mighty men of Missouei, come forth to the call, 
With the rush of your rivers when tempests appall, 
And the torrents their sources unseal; 



M moti4 with tU im$i. 87 



And this be the watchword of one and of all — 
^^Hemember the hiicher, McNiel ! " 

Then once more to the breach for the land of the 

West! 
Strike home for your hearts — for the lips you love 
best — 
Follow on where your Leader you see ! 
One flash of his sword when the foe is hard pressed, 
And the Land of the West shall be free ! 



88 ¥ou can leveti Min thorn Baoh« 



§0w: ran; |(tto Miit tlj^m §ax:h. 

You can never win them back — 
Never ! never ! 

Though they perish on the track 
Of your endeavor : 

Though their corses strew the earth, 

That smiled to give them birth; 

And blood pollutes each hearth — 
Ay, forever! 

They have risen to a man. 

Stern and fearless ; 

Of your boasting and your ban 
They are careless ; 

Every hand has grasped its knife, 

Every gun is primed for strife. 

Every palm contains a life 

High and peerless ! 

You have no such blood as theirs 
For the shedding! 

In the veins of cavaliers 

Was its heading: 



'^m can 'U^v^ Mln ihem K^mh. 89 



You have no such noble men 
In your *' abolition den," 
To march through foe and fen — 
N'othing dreading ! 

They may fall before the fire 

Of your legions, 
Paid with gold for murderous hire — 

Bought allegiance ! 
But for every drop you shed 
They will make a mound of dead. 
That the vultures may be fed 
In our regions ! 

But the battle to the strong 

Is not given. 
"While the Judge of right and wrong 

Sits in heaven — 
While the God of David still 
Guides the pebble, with His will — 
There are giants yet to kill — 

Wrongs unshriven ! 



90 B$^ut|egatt4'$ M^^^^l 



imnxtQKx))*^ %l^^mh 



(X.) 



Yea ! though the need is bitter, 

Take down those sacred bells ! 
Whose music speaks of our hallowed joys 

And passionate farewells ! 

But ere ye fall dismantled, 

Ring out, deep Bells ! once more : 

And pour on the waves of the passing y/ind 
The symphonies of yore : 

Let the latest born be welcomed 

By pealings glad and long ; 
Let the latest dead in the churchyard bed, 

Be laid with solemn song ; 

And the bells above them throbbing. 
Should sound in mournful tone. 

As if in the grief for a human death, 
They prophesied their own. 

Who says 'tis a desecration 

To strip the Temple Towers, 
And invest the metal of peaceful notes 

With death-compelling powers ? 



Beautfegatid^s c^ppej^l. 91 



A truce to cant and folly ! 

With Faith itself at stake, 
Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool, 

Or pause for the Bigot's sake ? 

Then, crush the struggling sorrow ! 

Feed high your furnace fires. 
That shall mould into deejD-mouthed giuis of 
bronze, 

The Bells from a hundred spires. 

Methinks no common vengeance — 

IsTo transient war eclipse — 
Will follow the awful thunder burst 

From their "adamantine lips." 

A cause like ours is holy, 

And useth holy things ; 
And over the storm of a righteous strife, 

May shine the Angel's wings. 

Where'er our duty leads us, 

The Grace of God is there. 
And the lurid shrine of War may hold 

The Eucharist of prayer. 



92 ^he (pameo Bracelet. 



Eya sits on the ottoman there, 
Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, 

With just such a face and just such an air 
As Esther upon her throne. 

She's sifting lint for the brare who bled, 
And I watch her fingers float and flow 

Over the linen, as thread by thread, ^ 
It flakes to her lap like snow. 

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, 
Wrought as Cellini's were at Rome, 

Out of the tears of the amethyst 
And the wan Vesuvian foam. 

And full on the bauble-crest alway — 
A cameo image keen and fine — 

Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, 
And the lava locks are thine ! 



I thoutjht of the war-wolves on our trail — 
lunt far 
blood — 



Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of 



^ho ($^m^(x Br^acelet. 93 



Till the i^ast, in a dead, mesmeric veil, 
Drooped with its wizard flood ; 

Till the surly blaze through the iron bars 
Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry, 

While a lank howl plunged from the Champs de Maru 
To the Column of July ; 

Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear ! 

And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown ; 
For Eva was not on the ottoman there. 

By Psyche carved in stone : 

She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, 

With the incantation in her gaze ; 
A lip of scorn, an arm of hate. 

And a dirge of the Marseillaise. 

Eva, the vision was not wild, 

When wreaked on the tyrants of the land — • 
jPor you were transfigured to JVemesis, child. 

With the dagger in your hand! 



94 iiett the Bell$. 



Pelt % §tlfe. 

Melt the bells, melt the bells, 
Still the tinkling on the plain, 
And transmute the evening chimes 
Into war's resounding rhymes, 
That the invaders may be slain 
By the bells. 

Melt the bells, melt the bells, 
That for years have called to prayer. 
And instead, the cannon's roar 
Shall resound the valleys o'er, 
That the foe may catch despair 
From the bells. 

Melt the bells, melt the bells, 
Though it cost a tear to part 
With the music they have made. 
Where the ones we loved are laid, 
With pale cheek and silent heart, 
'ISTeath the bells. 



k\i tU Bells. 95 



Melt the bells, melt the bells, 
Into cannon vast and grim, 
And the foe shall feel the ire 
From its heaving lung of fire, 
And we'll put our trust in Him 
And the bells. 

Melt the bells, melt the bells. 
And when the foe is driven back, 
And the lightning cloud of war 
Shall roll thunderless and far, 
We will melt the cannon back 
Into bells. 

Melt the bells, melt the bells. 
And they'll peal a sweeter chime, 
And remind of all the brave 
Who have sunk to glory's grave, 
And will sleep through coming time 
'Neath the bells. 



&6 (?annon $ong. 



Aha ! a song for the trumpet's tongue ! 

For the bugle to sing before us, 
"When our gleaming guns, like clarions, 

Shall thunder in battle chorus ! 
Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing, 

Where the black bombs whistle o'er us, 
With rolling wheel and rattling peal 
They'll thunder in battle chorus ! 

With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash, 

With the cannon's roar and rattle, 
Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns, 
Go down to their country's battle ! 

Their brassy throats shall learn the notes 

That make old tyrants quiver. 
Till the war is done, or each Tyreell gun, 

Grows cold with our hearts forever ! 
Where the laurel waves o'er our brothers' graves, 

Who have gone to their rest before us, 
Here's a requiem shall sound for them 

And thunder in battle chorus ! 



Gannon $ong. 97 



With tlie cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash, 
With the cannon's roar and rattle, 

Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns. 
Go down to their country's battle ! 

By the light that lies in our Southern skies ; 
i By the spirits that watch above us ; 
By the gentle hands in our summer lands, 

And the gentle hearts that love us ! 
Our fathers' faith let us keep till death — 

Their fame in its cloudless splendor — 
As men who stand for their mother land, 
And die — but never surrender ! 

With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash, 

With the cannon's roar and rattle. 
Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns, 
Go down to their country's battle ! 



98 Battle Eve. 



§attl« €bi. 

I SEE the broad, red, setting sun 

Sink slowly down the sky ; 
I see — amid the cloud-built tents — 

His blood-red standard fly ; 
And meek meanwhile, the pallid moon 

Looks from her place on high. 

O setting sun, awhile delay ! 

Linger on sea and shore ; 
For thousand eyes now gaze on thee, 

That shall not see thee more ; 
A thousand hearts beat proudly now, 

Whose race like thine is o'er ! 

O ghastly moon ! thy pallid ray 

On paler brows shall lie ! 
On many a torn and bleeding heart, 

On many a glazing eye; 
And breaking hearts shall live to mourn, 

For whom 'twere bliss to die ! 



^he titntieiutinvng. 99 



t Mixxdnxnmq. 



The swallow leaves the ancient eaves, 

As in the days agone ; 
The wheaten fields are all ablaze 
And in and out the west wind plays, 
Amid the tasseled corn. 

The sun's rays light as warm and bright 

On clover fields all red; 
The wild bird wakes his simple song 
As joyfully, the whole day long. 
As if he were not dead ! 

The summer skies, with softest sighs, 

Their rain and sunshine send ; 
And, standing in the farmhouse door, 
I see — dotting the landscape o'er — 
The flocks he used to tend. 

The woodbine grows — the jasmine blows — 

Beside the window-sill: 
Their soft sweet sigh is in the air, 
For the dead hands that placed them there 
On the red field are still. 



100 $h$ tft^^t^^^H^^^S' 



Around the wolds the summer folds 

Her wealth of golden light ; 
And, past the willows' silvery gleam, 
I catch the glimmering of the stream 
And lilies, cool and white. 

But oh! one shade has solemn made 

The sunshine and the bloom ; 
His voice, whose sweet and gentle words 
Were sweeter than the song of birds, 
Is silent in the tomb. 

How can the day, so bright and gay, 

Glare round the farmhouse door ? 
When all the quiet ways he trod 
By leafy wood, or blooming sod. 

Shall know him nevermore ! 



^e 31a$t of Banth. loi 



c fast of €nxi^'. 

A PRISON SCENE, (xi.) 

Last night a comrade sent in haste 

For me to soothe his feai'ful pain ; 
He felt Death's power advancing fast, 

He knew that liope was vain. 
God's promises I read again 

Till Faith's sweet light shone from his eye ; 
Sole gleam — for sorrow filled me then, 

As shadows fill the sky. 

A dreary place — that Hospital — 

Where dim lamps break the solemn gloom, 
And nurses move with slow footfall, 

Like spectres, through the room. 
Above those cots all miseries blend, 
^ On each some form in suffering lies; 
Some groan — some sleep — but here one friend 

Puts on the angel's guise. 

Scarcely I heard the bugle's call, 

Scarce felt the night-wind's heavy breath, 



102 t^h^ tsn^i t>i %^x\th. 



I only saw the shadows fall 

And the ghastly chill of death, 
Save where a pallid splendor lay 
Upon his brow — like Martyr's crown — 
The sweet foreshadowing of the Day 
In which Life's star goes down. 
• 

I hear his piteous tones implore 

And heed his hand's hot clinging grasp- 
Pale hands, alas — that nevermore 

Shall feel Love's answering clasp. 
His frenzied spirit flies from pain. 

He thinks himself once more at home : 
"Dear wife — dear child — I'm here again, 

Close to me — closer come. 

"I could not lag where country led — 

The voice of wrong could not beguile : 
You would not have me stay, you said, 

If honor ceased to sniile. 
Ah ! many fall in this wild strife ! 

But Freedom holds their memories dear, 
And makes a gem of every life — 

For the crown she yet shall wear. 



t$h^ :t^a$t of Emjih. . 103 



"And a many time when raged the fight 

I've seemed to see her through the smoke. 
With smiles that shone in tearful light, 

Bless every valiant stroke. 
I'm hurt and tired now — so place 

Our little darling by my bed; 
One hand, my own, to your embrace, 

And one on Baby's head." 

His voice was hushed — short grew his breath, 

The glazing eyes closed slowly o'er. 
The bloodless lips were kissed by Death — 

They'll speak of love no more. 
One clammy hand I held in mine 

And o'er it breathed my fervent joi'^yer — 
Beneath the other seemed to shine 

His Baby's golden hair. 



104 ^be PRotheii's t$Vfi$i. 



Far away are our beloved, 

Where resounds the battle-cry; 

Where, like hail, the fiery meteors 
Carry death, as on they fly. 

Far from home's dear shelter speeding — 
They its joy were wont to be — 

God of Battles, safely guide them ! 
" We icill trust our hoys to Thee ! " 

Few the years that each had numbered, 
When they heard their country's call — 

When they left the sheltering fireside — 
Home and kindred — left them all. 

Vacant is each place, and lonely — 
Must it always vacant be? 

Thou — 'who seest a sparrow falling, 
"TFe ijoill trust our hoys to TJiee!'*'* 

May they, in the hour of danger, 
Say the prayer a mother taught ; 

May the lessons of their childhood 
With rich blessings now be fraught; 



?he P^oih$if$ ^riu$t. 105 



May they never turn, or falter, 

From the path that leads to Thee — 

Very precious! in Thy keeping, 
Father^ let our children he! 

"When the strife shall all be ended, 

When the battle shall be won, 
May we fondly, proudly greet them. 

Saying — " Well and bravely done ! " 
But, if Thou shouldst early call them, 

Suddenly to breast the tide — 
Call them from the midst of battle, 

Sheltered safe at Thy dear side — 
May they at their post be watching, 

Ready for the Captain's word, 
And, their earthly weapon grounding, 

Be forever with the Lord! 
Father, our weak hearts are failing: 

As Thou wilt, so let it be! 
'Midst the battle shouldst Thou call them, 
" We will trust our hoys to Thee ! " 

And when life's last hour shall find us 

Drifting out upon the tide, 
We will breast the chilling waters, 

Knowing Thou art close beside. 



106 $he iloth$;f$ ^\\\x^t 



Wlien we gain the shining shore-side 
And the glist'ning portals see, 

May t/iey be the first to greet us — 
Those dear boys we trust to Thee/ 



M ^m^^^ lnv\Mi>n. 107 



% (Btmxul ^nbxMxon. 

Come ! leave the noisy Longsteeet, 

Fly to tlie Fields with me; 
Trip o'er the Heth, with flying feet, 

And skip along the Lee ! 
There Ewell find the flowers that be 

Along the Stonewall still; 
And pluck the buds of flowering pea 

That grow on A. P. Hill. 
Across the Rhodes, the Foerest boughs 

A gloomy Aechwat form, 
Where sadly pipes that Eaely bird 

That never caught the worm! 
Come! hasten, for the Bee is gone. 

And Wheat lies on the plains, 
And braid a Gaelai^-d, ere the leaves 

Fall in the blasting Rains ! ^^'^^ 



108 ^he Br^ave at |lome. 



The maid who binds her warrior's sash, 

And smiling, all her pain dissembles — 
The while, beneath her drooping lash, 

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles— 
Though Heaven alone records the tear, 

And Fame shall never know her story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 

As ever dewed the field of glory ! 

The wife who girds her husband's sword, 

'Mid little ones who weep and wonder; 
And bravely speaks the cheering word. 

What though her heart be rent asunder — 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 

The bolts of war around him rattle. 
Has shed as sacred blood as e'er 

Was poured upon the field of battle ! 

The mother who conceals her grief, 

While to her heart her son she presses. 

Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses — 



^he Btjave at :t^ome. 109 



With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 

Sheds holy blood, as e'er the sod 
Received on Freedom's field of honor ! 



110 PPlat|ylan4. 



The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maiyland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, • 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Hark to wand'ring son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My mother State! to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
Maryland ! 
^ Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
Maryland! 



^^at|t}lan4. ill 



Kemember Carroll's sacred trust; 
Remember Howard's warlike tbrust, 
And all thy Slmnberers with the Just, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
' With Watson's blood, at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Dear mother, burst the Tyrant's chain, 

Maryland! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" /S'ic Semper'^'' — 'tis the proud refrain, 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 



112 P^at^ylan^. 



Come! to thine own heroic throng, 
That stalks with Liberty along, 
And ring thy dauntless slogan song, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo! there surges forth a shriek 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek- 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the shot — the blade — the bowl- 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 



113 



She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb: 
Huzza! she spurns the JSTorthern scum! 
She breathes — she burns ! she '11 come ! she '11 
come! 
Maryland! My Maryland! 



114 fbeiie's 3iife in the W Ts<\ni uet. 



^Ijm's fife m tijc #1^ f anij irtt. ' 

Though the soil of old Maryland echoes the tread 

Of an insolent soldiery now ; 
And a lurid glare reddens the sky overhead 

From the camp-fire's light below ; 
Though from mountain to shore the hoarse cannon 
roar ; 

And from border to border are sentinels set, 
Whose bayonets shine in unbroken line — 

" There is life in the Old Land yet !''"' 

Though by treacherous hearts and unloyal hands 

Betrayed and disabled to-day, 
And deserted at need by her sons, she stands 

Confronting an armed array ; 
Though tyrannous might hath o'erborne the right, 
Hath despoiled and discrowned her — and men 
forget 
As they bow the knee, that they once were free — 
" There is life in the Old Land yet!^'' 



^hetie^a tsih In iho X$U Laud ijei 115 



But though patient and mute, she is still undismayed, 

Though passive, she is not subdued ; 
Though she shrinks from unsheathing her trusty 

blade 

In a fratricidal feud, 
N"ot long will she kneel when oppression's heel 

On her neck is by monarch, or president set ; 
And the blood even now is mantling her brow — 

J^or ^^ there's life in the Old Land yetf'' 

She remembers with pride what her children have 
done 

In the perilous days of yore. 
And will never relinquish the rights which they won, 

Kor disgrace the flag they bore. 
Then let those beware, who boastfully swear 

They will conquer her now, for their vaunt will 
be met ; 
And the Maryland men shall be heard of again — 

For " therms life in the Old Land yet 1 " 



116 Un^$ ^iitv^ :te)eleai 



f xms after §timt 

We have suffered defeat, as the bravest may suffer ; 

Shall we leave unavenged our dead comrades' gore ? 
Oh ! rather, my brothers, rise up in your manhood, 

And strive as no nation e'er battled before. 

Come ! rush from the mountains, the lowlands, the 
valleys, 
Rush on like the avalanche freed from its spell ; 
And lash the base cohorts, that throng to enslave 
us, 
With stripes that shall give them a foretaste of 
hell. 

Our women, to hearthstone and altar appealing. 
Say — " Shield us from ruin, or die where you 
stand !" 

Our children, O God ! can we fondle and bless them, 
While anarchy threatens, while despots command ? 

No ! rise in the strength and the glow of our valor, 
And strike a great blow that shall ring through, 
the world — 

A blow that shall shatter our fetters forever. 
And leave our proud banner forever unfurled ! 



Bngkn4'$ l$ut»|aliiy. 117 



k PARLIAMENTARY DEBATE, WITH NOTES : BY A CONFEDERATE REPORTER. 

All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of 
fancy, 

Or yet pursue with eagerness Hope's wild extrava- 
gancy 

Who dream that England soon will drop her long 
miscalled Neutrality, 

And give us with a hearty shake, the hand of 
N'ationality, 

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or 
omission, 

The 7iext debate in Parliament on Southern Recog- 
nition ; 

They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write 
it off, I see. 

As truly as the Times report, without the gift of 
prophecy. 



118 Bngknd'e louhtaliiy. 



Kot yet, not yet to interfere does England see 
occasion, 

But treats our good Commissioner with coolness 
and evasion ; 

Sucli coolness in the premises that really 'tis refri- 
gerant 

To think that two long years ago she called us a 
belligerent. 

But further Downing Street is dumb, the Premier 

deaf to reason, 
As deaf as is the Morning Pos% both in and out of 

season ; 
The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to 

beggary, 
And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck, or to 

Gregory, 

" Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering, 
While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready 

hearing — 
As par exemple Mr. Bright, that jnnk of all propriety, 
That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace 

Society. 



Bnglant3*$ leuii|alHtj. 110 



" Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, " those 
Southerners I hate 'em. 

And hope the Black Republicans will soon exter- 
minate 'em; 

If Freedom can't Rebellion crush, pray tell me what's 
the nse of her ? " 

And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as 
Lucifer. 

Enough of him; an abler man demands our close 

attention — 
The Maximus Apollo of strict Non-Intervention. 
With pitiless severity, tliough decorous and calm his 

tone. 
Thus speaks the "old man eloquent," the pnissant 

Earl of Palmerston : 

"What thougb the land run red with blood; what 
tkongh tbe lurid flashes 

Of cannon -light, at dead of night, a mournful heap 
of ashes, 

Where many an ancient mansion stood? what though 
the robber pillages 

The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hun- 
dred villages? 



120 Bnglan4'$ leutt|alHy. 



*' What though a fiendish, nameless wrong that makes 
revenge a duty 

Is daily done " (O Lord, how long !) '^ to tenderness 
and beauty?" — 

(And who shall tell, this deed of hell, how deadlier 
far a curse it is 

Than even pulling temples down and burning uni- 
versities ?) 

" Let arts decay, let millions fall, for aye let Freedom 

perish. 
With all that in the Western World men fain would 

love and cherish; 
Let Universal Ruin there become a sad reality : 
We can not swerve, we must preserve our rigorous 

ISTeutrality." 

O, Pam ! O, Pam ! hast ever read what's writ in 

holy pages. 
How blessed the Peace-makers are, God's children 

of the Ages ? 
Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing 

but a platitude; 
'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine 

beatitude. 



Bnglan4'$ "J^euti|aHtt}. 121 



But " hear ! hear ! hear ! " another peer, that mighty 

mail of muscle, 
Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" 

of Russell ; 
Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd 

reserve the folly see. 
And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret 

policy ; 

" John Bright was right ! Yes, let 'em fight, these 

fools across the water, 
'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter ! 
The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not 

to allow it, sirs, 
But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee 

howitzers. 

"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a 
penny. 

We give the gallant Southerners, the few against 
the many ; 

We say their noble fortitude of final triumph pre- 
sages. 

And praise in JBlacTciooocVs Magazine Jeff. Davis 
and his messages — 



122 :^nDkn4'$ leuti|a%. 



"Of course we claim the shinino; fame of glorious 
Stonewall Jackson, 

Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo- 
Saxon ; 

To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Mel- 
pomene" — 

(And why not for a British stream demand the 
Chickahominy ?) 

" But for the cause in which he fell we can not lift 

a finger, 
'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger ; 
'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are 

Homeric, oh ! 
Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto 

Jericho — 

" The thieves have stripped and bruised, although 

as yet they have not bound her ; 
We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left 

around her ; 
We shouldn't cry in Parliament if Lee should cross 

the Raritan, 
But England never yet Avas known to play the Good 

Samaritan. 



Bnglan4'$ ^^euitiality. 123 



"And so we pass to t'other side, and leave tliem to 

their glory, 
To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for 

song and story ; 
These honeyed words of compliment may possibly 

bamboozle 'em, 
But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in — 

Jerusalem. 

" Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hope- 
less desolation. 

Till wolves troop round the cottage door, in one and 
t'other nation, 

Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove 
no more refractory. 

And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee 
factory — 

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of 

Carolina, 
And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of 

Dinah ; 
Till War has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's 

knavery 
Has put an end in all the land to Freedom and to 

Slavery : 



124 ;Sn9kn4'$ 1iieutt|aHtt). 



"The grim Bastille, the rack, the wheel, without 

remorse or pity, 
May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee 

city, 
Ko matter should Old Abe revive the brazen bull of 

Phalaris, 
'Tis no concern at all of ours" — (sensation in the 

galleries.) 

"So shall our *merrie England* thrive on trans- 
Atlantic troubles, 

While India on her distant plains her crop of cotton 
doubles ; 

And so as long as ISTorth or South shall show the 
least vitality, 

We can not swerve, we must preserve our rigorous 
E'eutrality." 

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon 

legislator, 
When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a 

state of natur'. 
When vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery 

draughts of honey mead, 
Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John 

at Runnymede — 



'Snghn4'$ l^eut^alit^}; 125 



But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may 

understand it. 
And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee 

bandit, 
Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our 

nationality, 
Without the help of Britain's arm — in spite of her 

N'eutrality. 



12G ^ho :ifan0u $\M>U 



Cljx ^mc^ S>lpt ^"" 



xiU.) 



*' RiFLEMAisr, shoot me .a fancy shot, 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette ; 
Ring me a ball on the glittering spot, 

That shines on his breast like an amulet ! " 

"Ah ! Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead ; 

There's music around, when my barrel's in tune." 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. 

" ISTow, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
blood ; 

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch, 

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." 



*' O Captain ! I staggered and sunk in my track, 
When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette ; 

For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, 
That my heart rose upon me and masters me yet. 



^U ^Tanct^ ^hot. 12V 



" But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of 
gold— 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

" Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket — 'tis she ! 

My brother's young bride — and the fallen dragoon 
Was her husband — hush ! soldier, 'twas heaven's 
decree ; 

We must bury him there by the light of the moon ! 

" But hark ! the far bugles their warning unite ; 

War is a virtue, weakness a sin. 
There's lurking and loping around us to-night : 

Load again, rifleman — ^keep your hand in ! " 



128 "l^olunieotiea. 



I KNOW the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, 
And the summer sends kisses by beautiful May. 

Oh ! to see the rich treasures the spring is bestow- 
ing, 
And think — ^my boy, Willie, enlisted to-day! 

It seems but a day since, at twilight, low humming^ 
I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine ; 

While RoBBY, the four - year - old, watched for the 
coming 
Of father adown the street's indistinct line. 

It is many a year since my Hakry departed 

To come back no more, in the twilight, or dawn ; 

And RoBBY grew weary of watching, and started 
Alone on the journey his father had gone. 

It is many a year; and this afternoon, sitting 
At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, 

And quickly ceased dreaming over my knitting, 
To recollect — Willie is twenty to-day ! 



l^olunieetje^. 129 



And that, standing beside him this soft May-day 
morning, 

The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke — 
I saw in his sweet eye and lip a faint warning, 

And choked down the tears wheii he eagerly spoke. 

*'Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are 

crowing — 

They would trample the rights of the South in the 

dust ; 

The boys are all fire ; and they wish I were going — " 

He stopped, but his eyes said — "Oh ! say if I must !" 

I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed 
breaking ; 
My eyes filled with tears — ^but I turned them away ; 
And I answered him — "Willie, 'tis well you are 
waking — 
Go! act as your father would bid you to-day!" 

I sit in the window and see the flags flying. 
And dreamily list to the roll of the drum ; 

And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, 
And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb. 



130 ^olunteei|8^. 



I shall sit in the window, when summer is lyir^' 
Out over the fields, and the honey bee's hum 

Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sigh- 
ing, 
And watch for the face of my darling to come. 

And, if he should fall — his young life he has given 
For Freedom's sweet sake ; and for me — I will pray 

Once more with my Habkt and Robby, in Heaven, 
To meet the dear boy, that enlisted to-day. 



^oHn Ifelham. 131 



lo^it f 4am. 



Just as the sj^ring came laughing through the 
strife, 

With all its gorgeous cheer; — 
In the glad April of historic life — 

Fell the great cannoneer! 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 
His bleeding country weeps ; 

Hushed — in the alabaster arms of Death — 
Our young Marcellus sleeps. 



Grander and nobler than the child of Rome, 
Curbing his chariot steeds, 

The knightly scion of a Southern home 
Dazzled the land with deeds ! 



Gentlest and bravest in the battle's brunt- 
The Champion of the Truth — ■ 

He bore his banner to the very front 
Of our immortal youth ! 



132 Xt>hn llfelham. 



A clang of sabres 'mid Virginia's snow, 

The fiery pang of shells — 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells: 

The pennon droops, that led the sacred band 

Along the crimson field; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand. 

Over the spotless shield ! 

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face, 
While, round the lips and eyes, 

Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the 
grace 
Of a divine surprise. 

Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high, 
Thy tears may soon be shed ! 

Think of thy boy, with Princes of the sky. 
Among the Southern dead ! 

How must he smile on this dull world beneath. 
Fevered with swift renown — 

He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath, 
Twining the victor's crown! 



I|he l|)b$etiuie$ of $tmii{t 133 



We could not pause, while yet the noontide air 
Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing, 

The funeral pageant fitly to prepare — 
A nation's grief revealing. 

The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide 
That skirts our southward border, in its beauty, 

Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died 
For love and faith and duty. 

And still, what time the doubtful strife went on. 
We might not find expression for our sorrow; 

We could but lay our dear, dumb warrior down, 
And gird us for the morrow. 

One weary year agone, when came a lull. 
With victory, in the conflict's stormy closes. 

When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful. 
First mocked us with her roses — 

With dirge and bell and minute gun, we paid 
Some few poor rites — an inexpressive token 

Of a great people's pain — to Jackson's shade, 
In agony unspoken. 



134 t$U t|)b$equie$ of ftuattt. 



No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell, 

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding. 

When Stuaet to the grave we bore might tell, 
With hearts all crushed and bleeding. 

The crisis suited not with pomp, and she. 

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration, 

Had wished his Christian obsequies should be 
Thus void of ostentation. 

Only the maidens came, sweet flow'rs to twine 
Above his form so still and cold and painless, 

Whose deeds upon our brightest record shine. 
Whose life and sword were stainless. 

They well remembered how he loved to dash 
Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers ; 

How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flash 
Leaped from a mass of flowers. 

And so we carried to his place of rest 
All that of our great Paladin was mortal; 

The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast, 
That opes the heavenly portal. 



^h$ tf)b$$qule$ of $tuat[t. 135 



No more of tribute might to us remain — 

But there will come a time when Freedom's martyrs 

A richer guerdon of renown shall gain, 
Than gleams in stars and garters. 

I claim no prophet's vision, but I see 

Through coming years — now near at hand, now 
distant — 
My rescued country, glorious and free, 

And strong and self-existent. 

I hear from out that sunlit land, which lies 

Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us. 

The happy sounds of industry arise 
In swelling, peaceful chorus. 

And, mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim 
Of millions, undisturbed by war's afflictions, 

Crowning each martyr's never-dying name 
With grateful benedictions. 

In some fair future garden of delights, 

Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly 
warble, 
Art shall erect the statues of our knights 

In living bronze and marble: 



13a ^ho 15)b$equie$ of $in^t. 



And none of all that bright, heroic throng, 

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander — 

Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, 
Than this beloved commander. 

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid, 
Tliat after death he rode erect, sedately, 

Along his lines, even as in life he did, 
In presence yet more stately: 

And thus our Stuaet, at this moment, seems 
To ride out of our dark and troubled story 

Into the region of romance and dreams, 
A realm of light and glory — 

And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow. 
That ghostly form, in battle re-appearing, 

Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe, 
In victory careering! 



3:$ tHet|e any l^ew$ of the Mari? 137 



f s t^^^r^ attg i;^fas 0f tl^e War ? 

" Is there any news of the war ? " she said. 

" Only a list of the wounded and dead," 
Was the man's reply, without raising his eye 
To the face of the woman standing by. 

*"Tis the very thing I wish," she said — 

"Read me a list of the wounded and dead." 

He read her the list; 'twas a long array 
Of the wounded and slain on that fatal day. 
In the very midst was a pause, to tell 
Of a gallant youth who fought so well. 
That his comrades asked, " Who is he, pray ? " 
" The only son of the Widow Gray," 
Was the proud reply of his Captain nigh. 

" Well, well, read on. Is he wounded ? — quick ! 
O God! but my heart is sorrow-sick! " 
And the man replied — "Is he wounded? Nay, 
He was killed outright in that fatal fray." 
But see! the woman has swooned away. 



138 X$ thei^o m^ lew$ of the Mat|t 



Slowly slie opened her eyes to the light, 

Faintly she murmured, " Killed outright ! 

Alas, and he was my only son ; 

But the Avill of the Lord, let it be done ! " 

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, 

And the light of His peace illumine her way ! 



M I'tjatjei^ im\ itj^eaoe. 139 



% f rautv for fern. 



Peace ! Peace ! God of our fathers, grant us Peace ! 

Unto our cry of anguish and despair 

Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes, 

Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe 

Fill their poor urns with tears ; from trampled plains, 

Where the bright harvest Thou hast sent us rots — ■ 

The blood of them, who should have garnered it. 

Calling to Thee — from fields of carnage, where 

The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings 

O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday 

Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love 

And common hoj^es and pride; all blasted now — 

Father of Mercies ! not alone from these 

Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone 

Upon the battle's seared and desolate track, 

Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God! 

That Thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths, 

And in the crowded streets and busy marts, 

Where echo whispers not the far-off" strife 

That slays our loved ones ; in the solemn halls 

Of safe and quiet counsel — nay, beneath 

The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee, 



140 M '^^!^^^^ fott ilfeaoe. 



And 'mid their rising incense, God of Peace ! 

The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate, 

Hungering for gold and blood: Ambition, bred 

Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, 

Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway 

Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price 

On human hecatombs, and sell and buy 

Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests, 

"With white, anointed, supplicating hands, 

From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, 

Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down 

Thy censers and Thy cross to clutch the throats 

Of kinsmen by whose cradles they were born, 

Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth 

Till Rachel hath no children left to slay. 

The very name of Jesus, writ upon 

Thy shrines, beneath the spotless, outstretched wings 

Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid 

With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires 

That rise above them, angry banners flout 

The skies to which they point, amid the clang 

Of rolling war-songs, tuned to mock Thy praise. 

All things once prized and honored are forgot. 
The Freedom that we worshiped, next to Thee; 



M '^^\^^^^ foti itfoai^e. 141 



The manhood that was Freedom's spear and shield ; 

The proud, true heart ; the brave, out-spoken word. 

Which might be stifled, but could never wear 

The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie — 

All these are gone, and in their stead, have corae 

The vices of the miser and the slave. 

Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power. 

Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, 

Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope. 

Save as begun in self, and ending there. 

With vipers like to these, O blessed God ! 

Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more, 

Some shining seraph in Thy glory clad, 

To wake the midnight of our sorrowing 

With tidings of Good Will and Peace to men : 

And if the star that through the darkness led 

Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now! 

Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, 

With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak 

The unanswerable message of Thy will. 

Peace ! Peace ! God of our fathers, grant us Peace ! 
Peace in our hearts and at Thine altars; Peace 
On the red waters and their blighted shores; 
Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hosts 



142 M ^TOOtf fot| I'ea.tje. 



That watch and bleed, around them and within ; 
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless ; 
Peace for the captive on his weary way, 
And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness. 
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong; 
Sinning and sinned against — O God! for all — 
For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land — 
Speed the glad tidings ! Give us, give us Peace ! 



^ho ^onquet|ed Banne^j. 143 



Fuel that banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary. 

Furl it — fold it : it is best ; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it; 
There's not one left to lave it 
In the blood that heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it! 

Furl it — fold it ; let it rest ! 

Take that banner down !" 'Tis tattered ! 
Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered, 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it — 
Hard to think there's none to hold it ! 
And that those, who once unrolled it, 

ISTow must furl it with a sigh ! 

Furl that banner! Furl it sadly! 
Once, six millions hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave! 



144 ^ho (^ont^uetie^ Bannet^* 



Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts entwined like theirs dissever — 
And, upheld by brave endeavor, 
That dear flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave. 

Furl it! For the hands that grasped it. 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low : 
And that banner prone is trailing, 
"While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe ! 
For, though conquered, they adore it ; 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it: 
Weep for those who fell before it — 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it — 
And, oh! wildly they deplore it, 

N'ow to furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory; 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and story, 

Though now prostrate in the dust ! 
For its fame, on brightest pages 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages, 

Furl its folds though now we must ! 



^he ^onquet{e4 Bannet^* 145 



Furl that banner ! sadly — slowly ! 
Treat it gently — it is holy, 

For it waves above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfurl it never ! 
Let it lie there, furled forever — 

For its people's hopes are dead I 






r 



NOTES. 



Note I.—"YOJTIt MISSION." 

I AM not perfectly certain of the authorship of this poem. 
It appeared anonymously in a Charleston newspaper, and was 
never claimed by its modest author. In the South it was va- 
riously attributed to Mrs. Browning, J. R. Thompson, Mrs. 
Preston, and Paul Hayne. I am sure that neither of the three 
last wrote it ; and the credit was given to the first because of 
the combined strength and pathos of the poem, and its ap- 
plicability to the war in Italy. I do not think either reason 
strong enough to warrant the belief; and while I desire to 
pluck no leaf from the wreath that will to all time adorn the 
brow of The Geand Woman, I still think some "mute inglo- 
rious Milton " from the South will yet place himself in the 
goodly company of the poets by acknowledging its author- 
ship. 

Note II.—TME BJJBIAI OF lATANE 

is only a metrical narration of facts, as they occurred. In 
General Jeb Stuart's celebrated tour to the White House, 
round the rear of McClellan's army— known as the Pamunkey 



150 :^ote$. 

Raid — Captain Latane was killed in a skirmish. The follow- 
ing extract from a private letter to Mr. Thompson, from a lady 
who was present, tells the story in better language than any I 
can use: "Lieutenant Latane carried his brother's dead body 
to Mrs. Brockenbrough's plantation, an hour or two after his 
death. On this sad and lonely errand he met a party of 
Yankees, who followed him to Mrs. Brockenbrough's gate, 
and stopping there, told him that as soon as he had placed 
his brother's body in friendly hands, he must surrender him- 
self prisoner Mrs. Brockenbrough sent for an 

Episcopal clergyman to perform the funeral ceremonies, but 
the enemy would not permit him to pass. Then, with a few 
other ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron filled with white 
flowers, and a few faithful slaves, who stood reverently near, a 
pious Virginia matron read the solemn and beautiful Burial 
Service over the cold, still form of one of the noblest gentle- 
men and most intrepid officers in the Confederate army. She 
watched the sods heaped upon the coffin-lid, then sinking on 
her knees, in sight and hearing of the foe, she committed his 
soul's welfare, and the stricken hearts he had left behind him, 
to the mercy of the 'All-Father.' " 

Note III.— THE ZONE SENTBT. 

The anecdote of Napoleon keeping post to reprove a sleep- 
ing sentinel was changed by General Jackson to fit the 
mould of his grander soul. , When his brigade came up to 
Manassas, the men were so worn down by the toilsome march 



loiee. 151 

that they threw themselves on the ground, and without eating 
even, slept as they fell. The Adjutant, in speaking of a picket 
detail, mentioned their condition. "iVo.-"' said the noble 
Jackson, " Let them sleepy and Iicill loatch tlie camjp to-niglity 

Note IV.— A. FOJEM TMAT KEEDS NO JDJEBICATION. 

The incident suggesting this poem — the burning of Luna by 
the sea-robber, Hasting — is to be found in Milman's History 
of Latin Christianity. Its applicability I leave to the reader. 

Note r.—((TSEItJE!>S JLIFE IN IME OID IANI> YET." 

In a recent letter Mr. Randall informs me that it was not 
until this poem had been written several months that he saw 
Massey's " Old England,''^ in which a similar refrain occurs. 
Mr. Howard has ably used the same theme. 

Note n—^THE WAIt CMBISTIAN'S TJSANKS GIVING » 

was written on the occasion of a governmental thanksgiving- 
day, about the end of '63. It was never published except on 
slips for local distribution ; and even that was done before the 
author himself was apprised of it. 

Note VII.— A WOItI> WITS TJSE WEST 

was published in Richmond on the occasion of General J. E. 
Johnston's leaving to take command of the Western Depart- 
ment at the end of 1862. 



152 lote$. 



Note riII.—"NBWZT WMOJIGHT IN THE FOBGES OF 

SFAIN.» (f 

A magnificent Toledo blade, bearing the mark of the royal 
manufactory, had just been brought from Spain, and presented 
to General Johnston by a gentleman of Alabama. 



Note lX.—"3IVIt3lVM0TT8 FINES." 

General Johnston was the commander of the Virginia army 
at the " Battle of Seven JPines^^^ and gained much honor with 
the people of the State for his conduct of the affair. He was 
badly wounded on the first day, when the command devolved 
upon General E. E. Lee. 

Note X.— BE AUREG AMD'S AFFEAI 

was for the plantation hells only to melt into cannon ; but at 
once numbers of the churches offered theirs. Some of these 
latter that were accepted and not used, have recently been re- 
turned to their owners by the United States officers. 

The sister poem to this, called forth by the same proclama- 
tion, was never acknowledged. It has a ring and fire that 
make it somewhat remarkable that this modest but valuable 
contribution to the bell-fund was never placed at the right 
door. 



loie$. 153 



Note XI.— A JPBISOJS- SCENE, 

as well as the touching poem by the same author that precedes 
it, was written while Colonel Hawkins was a prisoner of war 
at Camp Chase. After a long and wearing imprisonment, the 
close of the war liberated him, only to see his "fair, sunny 
land " and die. But he will not be forgotten as long as his 
people love the poetry of true feeling. 

Note XII.—«FAIjIj IN THE BIASTTNG MAINS.'' 

General Rains had charge of the torpedo and pyrotechnic 
department of the army. 

Note XIII.— TME FANCY SJSOT 

has been claimed as a Northern poem. It was first 'published 
in Once a Week, as English property, but manuscript copies 
had for some time been in circulation in the South. 

It is no strained image of the horrors of the civil war that 
the poem presents. 



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